When you say a friend has a sense of humor do you mean that he

The words of Max Frisch—“When you say a friend has a sense of humor do you mean that he makes you laugh, or that he can make you laugh?”—may seem simple, yet they carry the quiet gravity of a philosopher’s riddle. In this question lies not mere curiosity, but an invitation to examine the nature of humor, of friendship, and of understanding itself. Frisch, the Swiss playwright and thinker, was a man deeply concerned with truth—truth not only in words, but in human connection. With this subtle provocation, he compels us to look beyond laughter as noise, and to see it instead as communion between souls.

For what does it truly mean to have a sense of humor? Many believe it to be the power to make others laugh—to craft a jest, to deliver a clever word, to lighten the heart. Yet Frisch asks us to look deeper: perhaps the greater gift is not in making others laugh, but in being able to laugh oneself—in possessing that inner elasticity that allows one to see irony in life, to accept the ridiculous without scorn, and to meet tragedy with a smile. He divides humor into two paths: the external, which amuses others, and the internal, which heals the self. And of the two, it is the second that reveals the noble spirit—the laughter that arises not from wit, but from wisdom.

In the ancient world, the philosophers of Greece and the sages of the East understood this form of humor as a sign of enlightenment. Democritus, known as the “laughing philosopher,” was said to wander through the streets of Abdera chuckling at the follies of mankind—not in mockery, but in compassion. He laughed because he understood that human beings, in their striving and suffering, are endlessly absurd and endlessly beautiful. His laughter was a kind of mercy—a refusal to despair. In him we see Frisch’s question made flesh: the true friend, the true wise man, does not make you laugh from above, but awakens laughter within you, from a place of shared recognition.

And what of friendship itself? Frisch, ever the student of the human heart, knew that the bond of friends is built not upon amusement alone, but upon mutual understanding. When one says, “My friend has a sense of humor,” the meaning is often self-centered—we mean that we find joy in their company. But Frisch’s challenge is subtle: do we value our friend for what he gives us, or for what he is? True friendship, like true humor, is not a performance but a communion. The friend who can make you laugh is precious, yes—but rarer still is the friend who can laugh with you, who finds joy not in controlling your reaction, but in sharing your humanity.

Consider the example of Abraham Lincoln, that grave and gentle man who bore the weight of a nation in war. His humor was not the humor of entertainment, but of survival. He told stories and jokes not merely to make others laugh, but to sustain their hope. His humor was shared; it sprang from empathy. When a colleague once asked how he could jest amidst so much death, Lincoln replied, “If I did not laugh, I should die.” This is the sense of humor Frisch points to—not the power to provoke laughter, but the grace to endure pain with light.

Thus, in Frisch’s question, we find an ethical challenge. The sense of humor he praises is not a tool for vanity or performance—it is a moral faculty, a sign of the heart’s maturity. To possess it is to see clearly and still choose kindness; to be aware of life’s contradictions and yet remain tender. It is, as the ancients would say, the laughter of the wise—the laughter that redeems. And in friendship, such humor becomes sacred: it creates space for imperfection, forgiveness, and shared joy. The friend who can make you laugh lifts your spirits for a moment; but the friend who can laugh with you sustains your soul for a lifetime.

Let this be the teaching passed down: Cultivate the humor that comes from humility, not vanity. Laugh not only at the world, but with it. When you seek friendship, seek not the jester who dazzles, but the companion who endures. And when you give laughter, give it as mercy, not as conquest. For laughter is a bridge across sorrow, a torch in darkness, and a mirror in which two hearts may recognize themselves.

So remember the wisdom of Max Frisch: when you say a friend has a sense of humor, may it not be because he entertains you, but because he awakens in you the courage to laugh again. For that laughter—the laughter born of empathy and truth—is not the sound of amusement, but the song of the human spirit remembering its freedom.